


Illusion

by FinallyBlessedQuiet



Series: Precious [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Insanity, M/M, POV First Person, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:46:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinallyBlessedQuiet/pseuds/FinallyBlessedQuiet





	Illusion

If I were alone with the lady currently standing in front of me, she’d be dead. I can smell her blood from here and it reminds me of Sherlock’s, which is not good. No one’s allowed to be like Sherlock, Sherlock’s unique.  
Since I’m supposed to be human, and a doctor, and a saver not a killer, I don’t kill her, and she gets to keep her Sherlock-blood. It’s hard though, because I’ve been stuck behind my human face for too long and it’s annoying. I can’t think well like this, my thoughts, they’re stuck in rigid straight lines with beginnings and middles. My thoughts are always freer when I’m not holding up my human face for all to see.  
I took this day job because normal people are supposed to work and I’m supposed to be a normal person, not myself. I hate this, I hate this I hate this.  
I know what’s wrong with you, your blood smells Sherlocky but you’re not sick, you’re a bloody hypochondriac, that’s what you are, I think. This comes out as, “It doesn’t look like there’s anything wrong with you, Mrs. Abernathy, but just to make sure, how about you come in in a week’s time if your symptoms persist,” because that’s what my illusion does, it translates my words to be more normal. I’ve gotten good at being normal, because being normal keeps me safe, which means I have more time to be myself and go hunting.  
“But Doctor,” the woman says, eyes big and pleading with the look of someone so fed up with her life that she will make up an illness just to make it interesting, “I went online, and it says that I might have cancer. Cancer! Can you believe it, me, cancer? I’m 47 and never done anything wrong I tell you…” her voice goes high, and shrill, and her hysterics almost make me wrinkle my nose in disgust, because there are few things that smell worse.  
I interrupt what I’m sure will be an hour long tirade if I’m not careful by saying, “You probably just have a cold. Don’t trust what you read online. Especially not on Web M.D,” obvious, obvious, so fucking obvious, I hate it when I have to say obvious things, even though it’s part of my character to do so. Lucky Sherly, he gets to be the interesting one, he doesn’t have to keep up the act to keep us safe, because he doesn’t look so different when he’s not pretending. Doesn’t smell too different, unlike me, I smell younger when I’m not pretending.  
Age-smells are messy with vampires, because you can smell old but be young and vice-versa. I’m old enough that I’m not sure how old I am because I didn’t know dates when I was human, but I smell younger. I say I’m 40 but I’m not, but that’s how old I smell when I’m pretending.  
“So I don’t have cancer?” she asks, her voice suddenly tentative and I have the vague urge to tear off one of her limbs, just because I know what she’s going to say next, I’ve heard it so many times from other empty headed humans. “Well, I still feel kind of poorly, I wonder if you can make me feel better?” she smiles when she talks, and suddenly her scent is no longer even remotely like Sherlock’s, because his scent is never sickly-sweet like hers is right now.  
I shake my head, even as my desperation to do her bodily harm grows. You’re not Sherlock, don’t even try because if you aren’t Sherlock than I’m not your precious, and you’re not special your just stupid, stupid are my thoughts, even as I am saying, “Of course,” she perks up a little, even though she must know that I’m not finished talking, I haven’t even really closed my mouth yet. “But only as any other doctor would. Come back in a week, and we’ll see if you’re still feeling sick.”  
She looks hurt even as I can almost hear her thoughts, which in all likelihood are either hypothesizing that I am gay (not entirely true) or that I just didn’t pick up her attempt at flirting. Which is probably what she is thinking of the two, despite the fact that she was about as subtle as the brick someone threw at my head when I was still human. “Good bye, Doctor. I’m going home to my husband now, he’s a doctor too, I’m sure he’ll take care of me.” Lies, such blatant lies. I know that her husband’s dead, she knows it too. Is this woman a compulsive liar? Unimportant, as she’s finally gone, out the door of the clinic, my last patient.  
It’s always a moment of relief when I realize that I’ve slogged through another useless set of hours with a set of useless people keeping each other alive for no other reason than that they can. It’s always amazing how much they believe that I’m not a very interesting person, Sarah of course mentioned how overqualified I am but she wouldn’t like to know that I know so much about putting people back together because I like taking them apart.  
The war was tasty, the fear that was constantly being bled into the air intoxicating. But I had to go, eventually, I got shot because I made a mistake like any other being would, so I had to come back because normal humans don’t recover quickly from being shot in the arm in the middle of a war. They were happy when I did that, I was too, I’d gone to war because I wanted more blood but then I realized I missed them, but even all of Mycroft’s power couldn’t get me home without it being weird, and of course I hadn’t met them yet (technically, anyway.)  
My thoughts are screaming to be free from middles and ending by the time I get to 221B and I almost drop my illusion accidentally, before remembering the door is open and putting it back up again. I close the door and it’s gone, and my limbs are thinner and gangly and my hair shaggy, and though I can’t see it I know my eyes are now completely pupils and it’s the best thing ever, it’s brilliant.  
Sherlock there, sitting, and I can smell the boredom. His eyes are white, and he smiles when he sees me, because he always smiles when he sees me because I’m his precious.  
I walk over to him, sit down curled up on his lap, the height difference even more exaggerated then when we’re “normal.” I like sitting like this, because it gives me easy access to Sherlock’s neck. Not like when we’re standing, and I have to stretch because he’s so tall and I’m so short.  
Instead of saying hello, I bite down on his neck and all the rest of the stupid woman’s scent leaves my mouth and nose. I can hear Sherlock moaning, and he grabs my hair, even though he knows that if I want to stop, I’ll stop even if his hand is there. It feels nice, his fingers in my hair, and I hate the fact that when I’m normal my hair is so stupidly short.  
“You’ll kill the dark one for precious,” I mutter against his skin, and he will. Because the dark one tried to hurt me in his unknowlege of what we are and though he thinks it’s just a battle of wills between him and Sherlock soon he’ll know what I’m like. I know he’ll be tasty, for some reason smart people are always yummier, especially when they’re scared and I’ll make sure that he’s scared.  
“Of course,” Sherlock says, and I pull back, and curl up farther. I know I act like a young human child sometimes, and I know it’s disturbing. But that’s what’s fun. We’ve exchanged these words before, and soon Sherlock will kill the dark one for me, and I’ll make him pretty.  
“I can’t see him,” I whisper, and that’s what scary, I can see everyone but him, so he has to die. He has to die because he hurt me, hurt Sherlock’s precious. I’m precious to Sherlock not just because I made him and he is my childe but because I’m his precious, and he loves me like I love him.  
I know that I’m the older one and his sire but I still like it when Sherlock starts making soothing noises, calming noises that make me feel safer. That’s why I like this, it’s safe like this, because I know that even when I’m weak Sherlock will keep me safe, both him and Myc’ll keep me safe.  
I fall asleep, eventually. I sleep a lot, when I’m not playing with Sherlock or pretending to be normal. It’s peaceful, and nice and wondering.  
All the traces of the stupid woman’s scent are finally gone, and I’m safe. “Love you,” I mutter, even as I fall asleep.  
I know Sherlock smiles, even if I can’t see it.


End file.
